


And I said "I will care about you on purpose"

by saturnsfather



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, No Plot No Canon Just Comfort, Other, Reader-Insert, Spoilers for Season 4, but its not focused on i promise, dont be fucking weird in the comments you guys, sorry forgot to add that one D :
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24186823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnsfather/pseuds/saturnsfather
Summary: You don’t even glance at the scuff marks on the floor, the occasional bit of wallpaper peeled away. It barely even catches your notice. Your focus is solely on how quiet it is in the building, the lack of any sort of movement in the rooms. Not even the sounds of the innkeeper shuffling around.Nothing.
Relationships: Oscar Wilde/Reader, but its not weird guys i promise i just want to hold his hadn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	And I said "I will care about you on purpose"

**Author's Note:**

> [disclaimer: if youre weird (ie creepy and fetishy) about wilde in the comments i wont hesitate to cut open the backs of your knees get outta here with that garbage]
> 
> so im gay and touch starved and this quarantine is really making that bad  
> saturn can have little a projection. as a treat.

Hurt and tired, the seven of you stumble back into the inn. The structure still stands, sturdy and comforting against the afternoon sky. Not as comforting as it used to be, with how easily you were all dragged away in the middle of the night, but still... whole. Better than out there.

The doors slide open with ease, and you all file in and collapse in various states of dishevelment across the floor and furniture. Zolf immediately begins checking people for lasting injury, calling upon his Hope powers for healing the people who need it, then calling upon his Grumpy Dad powers for the people who refuse. Azu does her best to help, laying hands on the people who don’t need a full spell.

You don’t even stick around to get a lecture from the cleric. There are far more important things than your health.

The people who kidnapped you all did it with surprising grace - not a door in the inn is damaged. Given what you all went through, it’s not a surprise they didn’t destroy the place - all they wanted was to get in and out with as little fuss as possible - but it’s still a wonder they got away with it. You don’t even glance at the scuff marks on the floor, the occasional bit of wallpaper peeled away. It barely even catches your notice. Your focus is solely on how quiet it is in the building, the lack of any sort of movement in the rooms. Not even the sounds of the innkeeper shuffling around.

Nothing. Your fear rises as you approach the room nearest to the quarantine cell.

Caution to the wind, you slam the door to the study open and push your way in. Immediately, a wave of nausea washes over you, and though you try to keep your balance, your senses are quickly overcome, and you hit the floor in seconds. The carpet below you spins, your head pounds, and you close your eyes against the assault, calling out from behind gritted teeth, “Oscar?”

The pain passes, suddenly, as a flame being smothered. Footsteps ring in your ears, quickly approaching your location, before halting abruptly in front of you. There’s a thump against the carpet, and you lift your head right as a pair of arms are thrown around your shoulders.

Or at least, you assume so. You can’t see them. But you can feel them, crossed behind your head, shaking like crazy. You can feel soft curls against your face, silk fabric under your hands as you lift them. You can hear who it all belongs to, scared, panicked breathing right by your ear. You can smell that vague waft of cinnamon he always prestidigitates in the morning. And you know, like it’s all you were ever meant to know. Like you were born knowing what it felt like to be in his arms. 

You return his embrace, shifting just enough to pull him properly into your chest, and as the illusion fades like water poured down his body, you close your eyes, breathing him in.

“You were gone,” he whispers, distinctly Irish and choked with tears against your collarbone. “You were all gone an-and I was alone and I-I- and I c-couldn’t f-find you, I was on my own a- again-” His voice breaks, and though you feel his mouth continue to move against your skin, no more words come out. He makes a strangled, defeated sound in the back of his throat, hands curling into fists against your shoulder blades, and you hold him tighter.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Oscar, it wasn’t on purpose. It will never be on purpose, I promise.” You continue to murmur small comforts to him, lifting a hand to run gentle fingers through his hair, and you feel the shaking slowly settle. The sobs calm, quiet down until there’s nothing but the occasional hiccup, and the tension in his shoulders has unraveled just the barest amount. Still, you hold him close, whispering  _ I’m sorry _ , and  _ I’m here _ , into his curls, trying to convey just how much you wish none of this had happened in those few words, the ones you dare speak aloud.

Eventually, he swallows hard, takes one last shaky breath, and pulls away.

Wilde is an absolute mess. The bruises under his eyes are pronounced in a way you haven’t seen in months, the tears still shining above them barely hiding how bloodshot his eyes are. His hair is completely out of place, his face gaunt and drawn to show he’s probably been crying for hours. The scar along the side of his face, curling up his cheek and across his nose, is red and raw in places, like he’s been scratching it. He’s still trembling slightly, swaying on his knees, and you know he probably hasn’t slept since you were all taken three days ago.

Your heart feels like its being squeezed by your rib cage.

He opens his mouth, struggles to say something for several moments, then closes it again, his brows drawn together in frustration and anger. You reach out to brush some hair out of his face, but he flinches away like he’s afraid you’ll burn him. Now that the panic has passed, the expression he fixes you with is one of conflicted emotions, pain, anger, fear, relief, hesitation. More. Above it all are his eyes, wandering up and down your kneeling form, over and over again, like you might disappear again any second.

The door makes a sound behind you, and you look back to see Zolf standing there, looking concerned, blocking the light from the hallway so his face is cast in shadow. “Wilde... Are you okay?”

Again, Wilde’s voice refuses to work, and his lips move like he’s grinding his teeth. Zolf’s expression settles into something resembling... sympathy, exhaustion. Knowing distress. He walks forward and kneels beside the two of you, looking Wilde over, likely for injuries. Finding nothing, he sighs in relief, then turns to you.

“Status?”

The question is quiet, probing. You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

His mouth twists, doubting, but he doesn’t push it, simply looks back to Wilde, watching for several moments as the man stares at the floor. When nothing changes, he sighs again, this time in resignation, and stands. “I’ll tell the others Wilde’s okay, and we’ll start lockin’ up the inn for quarantine.” You nod, and he starts for the door, but turns back before leaving properly, giving you a very specific look that you think means,  _ Take care of him _ .

As if you needed to be told.

Once the door closes behind the cleric, Wilde struggles to his feet, walks to the desk and places his hands against it to steady himself. Following suit, you stand, coming as close as you dare.

He’s still shaking.

After several more moments of heavy silence, his voice returns. “Where were you?” The leveled, measured RP has returned, and it feels like a club being swung repeatedly at your head.

“We- We were kidnapped,” you reply, looking away, though you see his hands curl into fists on the desk. “It’s... there’s a lot.”

“Well.” His voice is dripping with exhaustion. “We have plenty of time.”

With a heavy sigh, you move to settle into the chair against the wall, and, starting slowly, tell him everything that’s happened over the last 72 hours. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, just stares at the desktop while you talk. When you finish explaining, gesturing vaguely towards the last room you saw the others in as you mention the seven of you returning to the building and collapsing, he nods slowly, and you can see his eyes fall gently shut. Your story finished, you go silent, and he still doesn’t speak, just stands with his eyes closed and his shoulders hunched, no longer visibly shaking but still clearly exhausted.

Carefully, you stand again, creeping towards him. The urge to hug him again rises like a tidal wave inside you, and you’re barely able to beat it back down, your hands flexing by your sides; he would probably have another panic attack if you touched him without warning. 

Then he clears his throat, eyes flicking open, and you stand up straight, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“I am... glad you are all alive,” he says, slowly and carefully, like he’s trying to convince himself that you really are. “We will have to stay here for a week. Who knows what you all were exposed to out there.”

You nod. “Zolf said he was on it.”

“Yes, yes,” Wilde mumbles, his voice distant. He’s still staring straight ahead, no longer quite at the desk, eyes glazed and far away. He’s...definitely dissociating now, especially as the seconds drag on and he doesn’t continue. Barely moves, blinks slowly. 

Beating back impulses be damned. You reach out, sliding your fingers between his palm and the wood surface; he doesn’t react, and it’s all the invitation you need to slip your hand around his. You push yourself up to sit on the desk, clasping his hand softly between your own rough, calloused palms, and slowly rub your thumb back and forth across smooth skin, the ridges of veins only briefly interrupting its course. 

For a while, he doesn’t respond, the dissociation strong and holding. Your touch is gentle and steady, however, and after some time, he blinks twice, swallows, his eyes finally focusing on the objects in front of him. His head turns, very slowly, as he gazes down at your linked hands. 

“Oh...” he breathes, noticing the connection for the first time. His gaze travels gradually up your arms, meeting your own in a steadying connection that makes your chest feel like it’s going to burst. His lips part, but nothing comes out, not because of nonverbal panic this time; it seems like he just can’t find words. 

Then his hand shifts, and for a moment you’re scared he’ll pull away, curl into himself, tell you to leave.  _ Please, _ you think desperately,  _ don’t do this to yourself. _

He doesn’t. His fingers curl against yours, accepting the contact, hesitantly, like he’s still scared it’ll hurt. “I don’t...” His voice is faint, wavering, unsure. “Why is this... Why don’t I want you to stop?”

You don’t. Your thumb continues its gentle rhythm, sweeping across the back of his hand. “I don’t know why. What I do know is that I’m not going anywhere.” You hold his gaze, despite the doubt that immediately creeps into it. “I can’t. If I give up the opportunity to be by your side I’ll never forgive myself.”

He blinks, his lips twisting into an odd facsimile of a smile. “What?”

You do smile, small and soft, and you push as much comfort and affection as you’re able to hold in your body into that one expression. “It’s a privilege, to be here. To hold your hand in mine, be given the chance to care for you.” You’ve never spoken these things aloud before. You’ve never had time. There’s always been something else, some disaster holding your attention. The universe is giving you an opening, and if you don’t take it, you don’t think there’ll be another one for a very, very long time. “No strings attached. No earning it. I’m doing this because I want to, because I want you to actually be told that you’re loved and wanted. It’s the least you deserve.”

The expression on Wilde’s face slowly changes as you speak, from startled disbelief, to worry, to something akin to horror, and as tears start to prick the corners of his eyes, wide and searching your own, you fear you’ve just undone all the hard work of calming him down from his panic attack. The tears don’t stop, spilling over the edges of his lower eyelids and slipping down his cheeks in fresh tracks. He doesn’t seem to notice. “I- I don’t understand.” His natural accent is back, along with what can only be described as utter bewilderment. 

“You don’t have to.” You hold his hand tighter. “I just- I need to tell you. I need you to know, or at least be told, even if you don’t believe it.”

“Why would you want to stay by me?” For his credit, he sounds genuinely curious. “I’m... unstable, and- everyone gets hurt around me. No one in their right mind would do that to themselves.”

You try to steady yourself against a sudden rush of anger, not at him, but at anyone who ever made him think that, at the world for convincing him his mere presence was the cause of all the hurt he’d seen and experienced. At the anxiety gnawing at his heart, the panic that dwells in the corners of his mind, waiting to engulf him at the slightest opportunity. You’ve watched him fight it enough times to know how hard that battle was. “Maybe I’m not in my right mind. But you aren’t gonna stop me. You’re a person, Oscar, and that means you deserve love. Full stop. Nothing in return. Like I said, no strings attached.” Your smile returns, gently, once again trying to convey all of the care you can, all of the  _ You are not a burden _ , and  _ I love you _ .

His face scrunches up almost comically, and you try to stifle a laugh as he stares down at your hands, entwined, fingers caught against each other in a hold that is comforting and warm and solid. “I... still don’t understand. And I don’t think... I don’t think I  _ can _ believe you. I won’t-” He lets out a short, harsh laugh. “I won’t let myself.”

“That’s okay,” you murmur, removing one of your hands from your lap in order to brush some of his hair aside, tucking it behind his ear. “I know it’s hard. But I’ll keep telling you until you do believe.” Your smile edges into sly territory. “Or until you’re sick of hearing my voice.”

He meets your gaze again, leaning clearly subconsciously into the hand beside his temple until skin meets skin. “That would never happen,” he states, no hesitation, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and you almost start laughing but manage to repress it. You feel like that would break whatever careful hold the universe has on the two of you that’s allowing this to happen. 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to believe me, eventually.”

His mouth twists in disbelief, and then you softly cup the side of his face with your hand. The tension instantly dissipates, his eyes slipping closed, and he leans completely and fully into the touch, a soft sigh the only thing that escapes his lips when they part. His eyelashes flutter gently where they kiss his cheekbones, and the urge to press a kiss of your own where they lie is almost too strong to ignore.

Then the door to the study opens again, and Wilde pulls his hand from your grip, turning to face the intruder.

Your hands are immediately cold.

“Hey,” Barnes says, either not noticing or not commenting on the sudden tension in the room. “The inn’s all barricaded. Keeper’s fine, figured we had a handle on whatever was going on. Guess they just didn’t find him when they grabbed us.”

Wilde shakes himself for a moment, then nods. “Sounds about right.” There’s the RP again. “Thank you, Barnes.”

Barnes tilts his head for a moment, leaning against the doorframe. “Why didn’t they get you? They didn’t specifically mention anything about you, so I don’t think they got us and not you on purpose.”

Turning away from the door, Wilde snaps his fingers, and that’s when you know whatever moment you’d been having is over. Prestidigitation washes over him, setting his hair in place, redoing his makeup, and cleaning up the red rim and bloodshot state of his eyes. He looks... well, fine, you guess. Not pristine, but not like he’s just been crying. 

It almost makes you sad.

“I was out of the building,” Wilde answers, moving around his desk to start rifling through the drawers. “I’d gone for a walk to clear my head, and when I got back it was empty. There was nothing I could really do unless I wanted to expose myself, aside from simply wait for your return, so... That’s what I did.” He starts setting papers on the surface of the desk, and you slip down to the ground to give him room. “Now, we have a week of being stuck with each other, so I recommend you two find something to do.”

There’s very little room for argument in his voice, and Barnes shrugs as if to say  _ I was gonna do that anyway _ . He leaves the room, and as much as you want to stay, whatever Thing you just had with Wilde is over, and he’s already sitting down to dig out a pen and get back to work. So you head for the door.

He calls your name.

When you turn back, he’s very pointedly looking not at you, really anywhere but at you. “I...” He swallows, fidgets with the pen between his fingers. “I would like to...” He’s having trouble finding words again, and you’re about to tell him it’s okay, that you’re gonna go take a shower, when the whole sentence comes out in one rushed breath. “Could you bring me dinner later this evening? I mean- That is, I-” He stammers for a few moments, then clears his throat. Speaks slowly. “I would like it very much if you would eat dinner with me. In here, perhaps. Without the others.”

_ Oh _ . A smile slowly curls at the edges of your lips, and you nod, contentment settling in your chest and making you feel light and a bit fuzzy around the edges. “I think I’d like that as well, Oscar.”

He jerkily nods in return, still not looking at you, then dives straight into paperwork.  


Later, then. You’ll tell him again. Later.

**Author's Note:**

> [once again: Dont Be Fucking Weird In The Comments I S2G]


End file.
